


Westbound

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Consent, F/F, First Kiss, Huddling For Warmth, Rare Pairings, Same Day Marriage, Wildlings - Freeform, free folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Ygritte steals Gilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Westbound

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by That Scene in 4x08. 
> 
> Warnings: discusses the incest/rape/abuse Gilly faced from Craster. Ygritte has some victim blame-y attitudes at the beginning that she changes by the end of the story. There’s also… I did my best to make stealing as non-rape culture-y as possible, because the way it’s presented in the books gets pretty skeevy.
> 
> Other notes: this is set before the Watch leaves for beyond the Wall, so before Sam and Gilly or Jon and Ygritte meet. There’s also a point where Ygritte thinks about oral sex, because I don’t buy that she’d never heard of it before Jon tried it on her. So I've chosen to interpret her asking Jon about it as, her never having been on the receiving end.
> 
> Finally: huge thanks to Mia, Fae, and Ezra for reading this over for me.

It’s not wise to get near Craster’s keep; never know when crows’ll come nesting. But cold winds are blowing, and cold drives game south. They flock close to the springs off the Gorge, where water is plentiful, and Ygritte’s path from the Antler River at the east to the Skirling Pass is a long one. Too long if there’s naught to eat. A detour to Craster’s may not be wise, but wisdom don’t know hunger, and between hunger and crows, Ygritte’ll take her chances with crows. They’d give her a far kinder death.

As luck has it, Ygritte’s not run into crows—none of the diseased, foul little pests, and none of the birds neither. She’s fared better with beasts: there're three little hares strung together by the necks at her waist. If she’s careful, she can make them last a fair while. It'll be good to have something other’n squirrel in her belly. 

The last of Ygritte’s traps has a hare in, its neck snapped and twisted. It has scarcely enough meat on its bones to be worth it, but Ygritte’s in no position to be choosy. She ties it with the others and straightens up, wiping her hands on her thighs. Behind her comes a sharp gasp.

Ygritte snaps around. A girl’s standing gape-mouthed in the clearing, a bitty young scrap of a thing, eyes wide and scared. _One of Craster’s daughter-wives,_ Ygritte realizes, tightening her grip on her spear, waiting for the girl to scream. 

Instead, she throws herself down at Ygritte’s feet. 

Recoiling, Ygritte resists the urge to kick out. She never had no patience for sniveling of cowards. 

“Up,” Ygritte says sharply, loud to be heard over the begging. “Forget me and you live.”

But the girl doesn’t move, still whimpering at Ygritte’s feet. _Too scared to hear,_ Ygritte thinks, disgusted, until she hears the words the girl is babbling. 

“—please, please, take me, steal me, I could be yours, steal me, if you steal me I could—” 

“Steal you?” Ygritte repeats. “Why would y—” 

“Craster won’t mind,” she interrupts. “He won’t even notice. There’s nine and ten of us, he wouldn’t miss me, and he’s dead drunk now. Please. I could be your woman.” 

Befuddled, Ygritte stares down at the girl in stunned silence. 

The girl seizes it as an opportunity. “He won’t even notice I’m gone,” she repeats. “I could be yours. I could be your woman. Your wife. I could do anything you want.” 

Ygritte searches the girl’s beseeching face. She really is a pretty little thing, if skinny; big doe eyes, a full pink mouth, wisps of dark hair curling on her forehead. Looking closer, she must be older than Ygritte first thought, nearer to Ygritte’s own age. At least seven and ten. 

At least seven and ten years under Craster’s thumb. 

With a long, slow sigh, Ygritte shakes her head. “If I was to steal you, you wouldn’t like it any,” she says. “I’m headed West, girl. It’s a hard journey, and long.” 

The girl is shaking, from cold or fear or both. “I’d like it fine,” she insists. “Please, I have to leave. I don’t care how.” 

“I do,” says Ygritte, indignant. “Can you hunt? Can you make traps? How’m I to feed us both when I don’t even know if I can feed myself?” 

“I can cook,” says the girl, desperation in her voice. “And I can take food from Craster, I can, and, and I can sew, and tan hides. I can give you a son—" 

Taken aback, Ygritte barks a startled laugh. 

"I can't put no sons in your belly," Ygritte says. "Nor no daughters, nor nothing else neither." Mayhaps not even food. 

"No, n—I'm with child," says the girl. "Nella says it's a boy, and she's never wrong. I can give you a son." 

With child—Ygritte looks at her, sharp and critical. She’s too slight to be far along, but if Ygritte’s any judge of her, the girl ain't lying. It still don’t matter; no one wants a son born of incest. Bad blood. Cursed blood. Not a healthy child, not a child who’d strengthen a clan.

But as Ygritte opens her mouth to say so, the girl rises on her knees, clutching at Ygritte's furs.

"Please," the girl whispers. "He means to kill him. He means to kill my baby. I'll be a good wife for you, please, please, just steal me away." 

Ygritte stares down at the girl's pleading face.

“Who are you?” she asks finally. 

“I’m Gilly,” says the girl. "M'lady." 

Ygritte snorts. "Not your lady." 

"Then," Gilly hesitates. "Who are—what am I to call you?" 

Ygritte watches her for a moment, this strange girl begging to be stolen, who lived all her life in Craster’s thrall. _She’s known no kind of freedom,_ Ygritte thinks, and a heavy feeling settles in her chest. 

"Ygritte," she says then, and grasps the girl’s—Gilly’s—hand tight and tugs her to her feet. 

*

Before making their long trek towards Mance’s army, Ygritte sends Gilly back to Craster’s, instructing her to steal what she can. Gilly stutters her agreement and scurries off. She comes back quick enough with dried fruit and smoked meats and fervent apologies for not carrying more. 

Ygritte leads them westward, keeping a shrewd eye on Gilly as they walk. She wants a sense of what Gilly’s made of, but so far she hasn’t learned nothing much. She’s just seen Gilly looking over her shoulder every ten paces, jumping whenever there’s a rustle in the leaves. 

When the sun’s sunk down to brush the top of the trees, Ygritte judges they're far enough from Craster to build a fire. She makes Gilly do it, just to see if she can; Gilly can, and she’s quick and skillful about it. Afterwards she offers to skin Ygritte’s hares. 

Still watching, canny as a cat, Ygritte passes Gilly a hare, and then, after a somewhat longer pause, the skinning knife. Even so, she keeps a hand on her spear. If it came to it, Ygritte could fend Gilly off, but Gilly shows no sign of turning the blade on her. 

Gilly skins two hares just as quick as she’d built the fire. They roast them in near-silence, Ygritte sharpening the tip of her spear while Gilly stokes the fire and tends to the spits. Ygritte glances at Gilly every so often out the corner of her eye, but Gilly’s not doing nothing suspicious, sitting quiet as a little brown mouse. 

Sometimes when Ygritte looks away, she can feel Gilly's eyes crawling over her. Whenever she looks up, Gilly's back to staring at the fire.

Gilly’s stillness ain’t enough to quiet Ygritte’s suspicions. Ygritte could overpower her, easy, but it’d be just as easy for Gilly to take a knife to her throat in the dead of night. When it comes time to bed down, Ygritte’s got half a mind to tie Gilly up for the night, but that’s not how she wants to treat her woman. 

Instead, they make camp on noisy ground. Dry leaves and twigs beneath them, enough to wake Ygritte up in time to defend herself. People don’t move as quick or quiet as animals, not even tiny little mice like Gilly. 

Ygritte crawls into her bedroll, keeping Gilly in her sights. She won’t get much sleep, not if she’s got to be alert for the smallest noises, but if not for killing Gilly nor tying her up, there’s no other way about it.

*

When the the crackle of leaves wakes Ygritte, it’s dark, and she can’t see naught but wispy forest shapes. The crackling’s too loud and slow to be wildlife. Nice and easy, Ygritte shifts under her furs, reaching for her spear to better fend off a knife. If it comes to that—it don’t seem likely Gilly’d attack her. What for? Why would she beg Ygritte to steal her, only to knife her in the night? But Gilly's treading too close to Ygritte to be going off to make water, and Ygritte's not reckless enough to trust Gilly so quick. 

Waiting, Ygritte keeps her breath even and quiet, like she’s still asleep. But when Gilly comes close she only plops down on the bedroll, seemingly none too concerned with noise, and then, strangely, begins wriggling under the furs with Ygritte. 

“Gilly,” Ygritte says. “What—” 

"I thought you'd call for me," murmurs Gilly. "I know what wives are for." 

Ygritte pulls away. "You've got it wrong, girl." 

Gilly follows. "I know what wives are for," she repeats, her face close to Ygritte’s. "I was a good wife, and now I'm yours, I'll be a good wife to you—" 

"Quit that," says Ygritte, sharp, catching Gilly's skinny wrist before she can slither her hand between Ygritte's legs. She grabs too hard by mistake, making Gilly gasp in pain. 

Ygritte loosens her grip, but now as she can make out Gilly’s face, she looks as though she’s about to cry. 

"Don't—” Gilly starts, and then, mouse-meek, she asks, “Don't you keep wives for that?"

 _Yes,_ thinks Ygritte, frustrated. But wives are for more than just fucking, and wives ain’t meant to be scared. Craster’s a foul, evil shit, raping and beating his women, but he’s still breathing. If that rotten old fuck could put his filthy hands on Gilly without getting a dagger in the gut, it seems like as not Gilly would lay still and quiet and scared for anyone. The thought makes Ygritte sick to the pit of her belly. She doesn’t know why Gilly nor none of her sister-wives never slit Craster’s throat. Mayhaps one day, she'll ask. 

“No,” Ygritte says out loud. “We don’t keep wives for that.” 

“Then,” Gilly starts, lip trembling. "Then what _do_ you keep your wives for?" 

Ygritte chews on her lip. "Don't keep ’em at all," she says at last. "Wives’re people, not horses nor sheep nor hounds. A wife belongs to herself, and belongs to her husb—belongs to. The one what stole her. But they belong to their wives too." 

Such a simple thing feels strange to explain, stranger still since Gilly's face clouds even more with distress. 

"I won't touch you," says Ygritte. 

Gilly's face crumples. "Do I—you don't want me?" 

Ygritte frowns. "Stole you, didn't I?" 

"Only when I begged," says Gilly, miserable. "I can. I can be better. I can do better. Please just don't send me away—" 

"Hush!" snaps Ygritte. "I won't touch you, and I won't send you away, nor your babe neither. You're mine now, and I'm yours, but I'm not your keeper, no more’n you're mine." 

"But," says Gilly, and then she flinches, closing her mouth tight, seemingly remembering the order to hush. 

Ygritte mislikes the fear on Gilly’s face, mislikes the way she crumples and yields at Ygritte’s words. _It’s Craster’s work,_ she thinks, scowling, and wonders again why Craster’s still breathing. There’s no guessing it; Ygritte would have killed Craster long ago, but Gilly hasn’t, and neither has nobody else, and Ygritte can’t make sense of it.

"Gilly," Ygritte says suddenly, and Gilly freezes, half out of the bedroll. 

Ygritte opens her mouth, but the words stick in her throat like thorns. Thinking, she prods her cheek with her tongue for a moment, before saying, "Craster's still alive." 

It’s quiet, Gilly staring wide-eyed at Ygritte and waiting, until she sees Ygritte wants an answer.

“I—suppose?” Gilly says, slow and tentative.

Ygritte huffs. "Why?" she demands.

"S—sorry?" 

"Why ain't he dead?" says Ygritte, impatient. "How many wives's he got? How come none of you never cut him open?" 

Gilly's eyes, somehow, widen further. “We couldn’t.” 

“‘Couldn’t’?” Ygritte repeats. “How many blades was in that keep of his?”

“All of them was always on his belt, or locked up,” Gilly says. “He had the keys.”

“You knew how to skin a hare,” Ygritte says. “You must’ve had knives for that.” 

Gilly shakes her head. “If one’ve us was caught with a knife we wasn’t supposed to have, he beat us all.” 

“ _His_ knives, then,” says Ygritte. “While he was snoring. Every man sleeps.” 

“I wanted to,” Gilly admits, soft. “Sometimes, I wanted to. But…”

“But?”

“If he was dead, what happens to us?” Gilly asks. “Who keeps us safe from crows, or White Walkers? Who keeps us safe from _you_ , and your clansmen?”

That shuts Ygritte’s mouth. 

The silence breathes its woodsy breaths, wind shuffling soft in the trees and through the leaves. Gilly slides back into the warmth of Ygritte’s furs, her eyes flicking to Ygritte’s as though waiting on another reprimand. Ygritte can’t remember the last time she needed to be protected. Even when she was too small to wield a spear or draw a bow, she could still hold a knife. But someone had to teach her how, and no one ever told her she couldn’t.

Under Ygritte’s gaze, Gilly curls in on herself, looking down. “I’m not brave,” she mumbles. “Not like you.”

Frowning, Ygritte sits up. “I might have killed you, back in them woods. How’d you know I wouldn’t?” 

Trembling, Gilly wraps her arms tighter around herself and doesn’t answer.

“Speak, girl,” urges Ygritte. “I could kill you now. How d’you know I won’t?”

Gilly shudders. “I don’t,” she whispers to the leaves.

“You _don’t_ ,” says Ygritte, with satisfaction. “I’m no safer’n Craster, so far as you know. Who’s to say I’m not _worse_ than him?” 

“You’re not,” says Gilly. “You couldn’t be.” 

“I could,” says Ygritte. 

“Are you?” asks Gilly, finally looking Ygritte in the face, a tiny spark of defiance in her eyes.

It suits her. Ygritte grins. 

“You decided to find out,” she says. “If that ain’t brave, I’m an aurochs.” 

*

Afterwards, there's naught to do other than find their way back to sleep. Ygritte’s not heartless enough to kick Gilly out again. It's safer with Gilly so close, anyhow; Gilly can't reach no weapons without waking Ygritte, nor make nearly any moves or sounds at all. 

Also, it’s bitter cold, even with no snow on the ground. It’s a foolish thing to turn down a bedmate in the cold. 

It takes Gilly a good while to settle, her small body stiff and tense for long enough for Ygritte to doze, startled into waking every time Gilly’s body relaxes another stretch. By any measure Ygritte can see, it ought to be an annoyance, but there’s some satisfaction in it when the fear leaks out of her. 

Ygritte has almost fallen asleep again when Gilly speaks. 

"I didn't just try it because it's what wives do," she says.

Ygritte frowns, somewhat muzzy from sleep. "Aye?" 

"No," Gilly says. "I wanted to know what it’s like. When someone didn't make me do it."

"I don’t mean to make you," says Ygritte. 

"I know," Gilly says. "You don't want me." 

Ygritte thinks of the curve of Gilly's cheek, her sweet plump mouth, the small shapes of her body beneath her furs. "I never said that," she says tartly. "I wanted you, so I stole you. But I ain't no Craster." 

"You said you wouldn't touch me," Gilly argues.

"If someone touched me that I didn't want, I'd kill him," Ygritte says. "But you never killed Craster, and might be you never fought him neither. I don't want my woman lying under me just because she's scared. That ain’t no way to keep a wife." 

"It's the way I was kept," says Gilly.

"It's a foul way," says Ygritte. "Foul and cruel." She has half a mind to go back to the keep and kill Craster and be done with him. 

"I didn't think it would be foul," says Gilly, sullenly turning away from Ygritte. 

Ygritte frowns. "When he touched you?" 

"No," says Gilly, impatient. "If you did it. Mayhaps I wanted you to." 

"You only said you'd be a good wife!" 

"I _am_ a good wife." 

"Skin hares for me and help me with my traps,” says Ygritte. “That's good enough. You don’t have to do naught else." 

"I told you," says Gilly, muffled into the furs. "I wanted to." 

Then Gilly goes quiet again, a pointed kind of quiet that makes Ygritte frown and suck on the inside of her cheek. 

“How’m I to know,” Ygritte says, and then stops. 

Gilly waits for a long moment, and then, somewhat testy, says, “To know…?” 

“Earlier you was scared of me,” Ygritte says. “How’m I to know if you’re kissing me ’cause you’re scared I’ll drop you if you don’t?” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“I don’t mean now,” Ygritte says, peeved.

“I _don’t_ know you won’t drop me,” Gilly says. 

“I don’t know you won’t slit my throat in the night,” Ygritte says. “But I ain’t trying nothing to keep you from it.” 

“Why would I slit your throat?” asks Gilly. 

“Why would I drop you?” asks Ygritte.

“If you can’t think of reasons, I won’t give you none.” 

Ygritte snorts. “Oh, I thought of them, girl. All them reasons, and I stole you anyhow, so why should I drop you now?” 

“People change their minds,” says Gilly. 

“I change my mind afore I done something, not after,” says Ygritte. 

Gilly flips back on her side, giving Ygritte a level look. “How’m I to know you’re saying that ’cause you’re scared I’ll slit your throat if you don’t?” 

Blinking, Ygritte stares into Gilly’s somber brown eyes for a few breaths, and then she throws back her head and hoots. 

“Got me,” she says through her laughter, shaking her head. The girl is clever, and that tongue has an edge on it what could draw blood. 

There’s a shy smile twitching at the corners of Gilly’s mouth, and she averts her eyes from Ygritte’s. It’s hard to say in the dark, but if Ygritte’s any judge, her cheeks are flushed. 

“I don’t think you’re scared of me,” Gilly mumbles. “Not truly.”

“Be like fearing a mouse,” agrees Ygritte. “But I been bit by mice before.” 

Gilly glances up, curious. “A mouse? I’m like a mouse?” 

“A little brown mouse,” says Ygritte. “Snitching from the larder, hiding in the leaves, scurrying through the woods...”

“Then you’re the pussycat,” says Gilly. 

There’s a lot Ygritte can think to say to that, naughty things what hint at fucking. She wonders if Gilly knows, or if she stumbled on it accidental. 

“Mayhaps,” Ygritte says, instead of nothing about purring or licking or eating little brown mice. 

“A red one,” says Gilly, twisting one of Ygritte’s curls loosely around her finger. “Would you have stripes?” 

“I’d have claws,” Ygritte says, dragging her nails lightly down the inside of Gilly’s forearm. 

Gilly shivers. “To catch your mice with?” 

“Mouse,” corrects Ygritte. 

“You’d be a hungry cat.” 

There come the dirty thoughts again. Ygritte pulls her hand back from Gilly’s arm. “A tired one. Long day of chasing.” 

“Oh,” says Gilly, withdrawing. Under Ygritte’s eyes, she shrinks down into herself, withering into a shell of a girl. “Mayhaps we ought to rest.” 

“Mayhaps,” Ygritte echoes. 

Ygritte watches Gilly turn away, her long straight hair pooling on the furs below her as she tucks her arms under her chin. 

“Gilly,” Ygritte says. 

Gilly makes a small, questioning noise.

“If you wanted to try,” Ygritte says. “I’d let you.” 

For a long moment, the only sound is breathing—Ygritte, Gilly, and the forest. Finally Gilly asks, “And what if I’m afraid?” 

“Then don’t.” 

“I am afraid,” Gilly says. “I still want to.” 

“Afraid of me?” Ygritte asks. 

“No,” says Gilly simply. 

Ygritte bites the inside of her cheek. She wants to know what Gilly’s afraid of, but at the same time she don’t want to know, not at all. Either way, it’s no good wondering, and it ain’t her place to ask, not yet.

Instead, Ygritte sighs. “Try if you want to try. I ain’t going to make you, and I ain’t going to drop you if you don’t. You’re my woman now, and I’m yours. That’s simple as I can put it.” 

“Simple,” Gilly murmurs. 

She’s not wrong; it ain’t simple. It would be—it should be—but it ain’t. Instead of saying so, Ygritte closes her eyes, meaning to get her sleep at last. 

Not three breaths after Ygritte shuts them, there’s the telltale sound of shifting, and Ygritte looks up to see Gilly’s face very close to her own. 

Ygritte opens her mouth to speak, but Gilly kisses her before she gets the chance. Or—not kisses her as much as she bangs her lip against Ygritte’s snaggletooth. Ygritte tries to shift to make it better, but Gilly’s quicker, her small hand cupping Ygritte’s cheek to hold her in place while Gilly fits herself more neatly against her body. 

At first Gilly’s determined, kissing Ygritte hard and forceful. Ygritte holds still and lets her. It feels strange to do—she never held still before while kissing nor while being kissed, and her hands want to go to Gilly’s side and her hips want Gilly’s thigh between them—but she does it all the same, letting Gilly take the lead. When Ygritte doesn’t fight her, Gilly slows, all at once tentative and unsure, her hand faltering on Ygritte’s cheek.

Slowly, Ygritte brings one hand up to cover Gilly’s, pulling back just far enough to brush her lips lightly against Gilly’s, almost more a nuzzle than a kiss. 

It makes Gilly breathe in, sharp, through her nose. She leans closer, following Ygritte’s mouth, and when she presses her lips more firmly to Ygritte’s, warmth pools deep in Ygritte’s belly. Gilly’s mouth is very soft, and so are her hands, and so is her hair, loose and tickling Ygritte’s forehead. Ygritte wants to touch it, so she does, threading her fingers through it as Gilly takes her lower lip between hers.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, Ygritte responding patiently to Gilly’s movements, tentative and clumsy and eager by turns. It’s gentler than any kiss Ygritte’s ever had, and sweeter, and whenever Gilly goes shy again, a rush of fondness sweeps through Ygritte. 

Gilly touches Ygritte’s face, her hair, her neck, then back to her cheek, and then, slowly, she pulls away, her big eyes flicking over Ygritte’s face. 

Ygritte brushes Gilly’s hair back from her face. “D’you want to sleep?” she asks.

“Yes,” Gilly says, her eyebrows creasing. “But…” 

Ygritte waits. Gilly takes her time, avoiding Ygritte’s eyes and opening and closing her mouth, as if the words are stuck inside and can’t get out. 

Just as Ygritte’s about to ask if the cat got her tongue, Gilly blurts out in a rush, “Can we—try it again? Not now. Sometime.” 

“If you like,” Ygritte says, smiling. 

“I do,” Gilly says. “I did.” 

“Good,” says Ygritte. 

Hesitating, Gilly twists her fingers in her shift, before asking, “Did you?” 

“Aye,” Ygritte says, smile growing wider. “Couldn’t you tell, little mouse?” 

“Well,” says Gilly, “you didn’t purr.”

Ygritte laughs, detangling her hands from Gilly’s hair. “Might be one day I will.” 

Gilly’s laugh is a small, fluttering thing, and her smile is soft and shy. It makes Ygritte want to touch Gilly’s cheek, to touch her mouth, but instead she pulls the furs back up over them, enveloping them in a small warm nest. Gilly doesn’t turn her back to Ygritte, just tucks her head under Ygritte’s chin and settles her arm across her. 

“Thank you,” Gilly murmurs.

“What for?” 

Gilly yawns. “For stealing me.” 

It’s a wash of cold over Ygritte. “Don’t thank me yet,” she says, thinking of Mance Rayder’s army, of the long journey to the Skirling Pass, of the winter she’s running from. “Might be you’re no safer with me than you was with him.” 

“Mayhaps,” Gilly mumbles into Ygritte’s neck. “But my boy will be. My son. He got a chance, now.” 

“A slim one,” says Ygritte. 

Gilly pulls back to look Ygritte in the eye. “If you hadn’t stolen me, he’d have none,” she says firmly, and then, smiling, she tugs on one of Ygritte’s curls. “And you’re kissed by fire. You’ll bring us luck. I know it.” 

_Mayhaps,_ Ygritte thinks, but instead of giving voice to doubt, she smiles. “Aye,” she says, and kisses Gilly’s forehead. “Sleep now, little mouse. Tomorrow’s a long walk.” 

“I never went so far from home,” Gilly says, tucking her head back under Ygritte’s chin. “What’s it like, out that ways?” 

“Cold,” says Ygritte. “Windy. Harsh. But free.” 

_You’re a free woman now,_ Ygritte thinks, but she can’t tell if Gilly knows what that means, not yet. _Or might be she knows better’n me. I ain’t never been chained._

But Gilly’s breathing is evening out and and slowing, and Ygritte won’t wake her up to ask. She’s spent too much of the night not sleeping, anyhow; she wasn’t lying about the long walk tomorrow. She closes her eyes, letting the soft sounds of Gilly’s breathing lull her to sleep.


End file.
